In the WhatsApp thread full of local memes mocking Americans ordering chilaquiles with oat milk. You’ll feel it on the street in Gràcia. In Roma Norte. In Lisbon’s Alfama. In Bali’s Canggu, where coconut prices somehow track the Nasdaq. It’s the silent hostility wrapped in politeness. That sharp smile that says: we see you, and we wish we didn’t.

I’ve lived in countries that didn’t want me. Not because I was rude. Not because I didn’t try. But because I represented something bigger, something heavier. An entire system of economic invasion dressed in linen shirts and MacBook decals. And when you live like this long enough, you learn to read the room. And sometimes, the room wants you out.

The Digital Nomad Villain Arc

There’s a growing narrative: digital nomads are the new colonizers. The rent-raisers. The sourdough gentrifiers. They come with dollar signs in their eyes, jack up the Airbnbs, fill every café with the noise of Zoom calls, and pretend three weeks in Oaxaca makes them enlightened. And let’s be real, there’s truth in the critique. There’s a specific breed of nomad that leaves wreckage. They don’t assimilate. They take space. They take photos. They take up whole neighborhoods and call it “living like a local” while outsourcing their laundry to someone who lives in a tin-roofed home two hours away.

But here’s the trap: lumping us all into the same caricature does nothing. Some of us came here with reverence, not recklessness. We learned the language. We didn’t just visit, we invested. Not in crypto. In community.

Barcelona Hates You, But Here’s the Thing…

Barcelona. What a mess. Last summer, protesters marched through the streets, chanting “Tourists out.” They’re not wrong to be pissed. This city was devoured by cruise ships, corporate money, and Airbnb landlords who bought entire buildings to flip into euro-churning machines. The locals watched their rents triple, their neighborhoods empty, their identities sold as “Catalan aesthetic” to weekend influencers. Barcelona’s protest wasn’t against you or me. It was against being turned into a product.

But let’s not pretend this is a clean dichotomy. The same governments yelling “no more tourists” are the ones handing out golden visas and tax breaks to six-figure nomads. They weaponize our wallets when it’s convenient, then vilify our presence when things get uncomfortable. That’s the real hypocrisy. The system wants us here, but only if we stay quiet and keep paying.

Mexico City Is Not Your Playground

Let’s talk about Mexico. Specifically, Mexico City. The crown jewel of the “I work remote and like tacos” crowd. Digital nomads flooded the city post-COVID, fueled by YouTube videos promising rent at $500 and a city full of charm and “authenticity.” But locals? They weren’t exactly thrilled. Posters started appearing across Condesa and Roma reading: “You’re the problem. Go home.” A pretty clear message.

But who gets to claim a city? Mexico City is massive. There are neighborhoods where no expat ever steps foot. Entire economies that benefit from this movement. And yet, the frustration is valid. When dollar-earners move in, prices move up. Families get priced out. Cafés double their prices and switch to QR codes. Taquerías start branding themselves “artisanal.” What was once home becomes unrecognizable.

Still, here’s where I push back. Not every foreigner is the same. Not every nomad comes to extract. I’ve met Americans volunteering with street kids in Tepito. Germans running free English lessons in Medellín. Australians investing in ethical tourism projects in Oaxaca. There’s a whole category of nomad that exists between the Airbnb investor and the clueless tourist. We’re not here for a selfie. We’re here to stay. Respectfully.

What No One Wants to Say Out Loud

Some of us are running from the same systems locals are angry about. I left the U.S. not to gentrify but to survive. The rent was unsustainable. The health care was a joke. The job market was eating my soul. So I left. Like many of us did. And we didn’t come to colonize. We came to breathe. To write. To heal. To live on $1,200 a month without drowning in stress.

This is what gets erased in the outrage. We’re not all tech bros on sabbatical. Some of us are burnt-out artists. Some are queer folks escaping conservative towns. Some are Black and brown and just want a place where existing doesn’t come with constant surveillance. When you say “expats out,” be careful. You might be pushing out people who look more like you than the landlords actually raising your rent.

Airbnb Is a Problem. But It’s Not The Problem

Airbnb deserves its villain era. What started as a scrappy travel hack turned into a real estate Ponzi scheme. In Lisbon, one in five homes is listed as a short-term rental. In Tulum, entire neighborhoods are ghost towns during the off-season. In Mexico City, landlords kick out lifelong tenants to convert apartments into WiFi-ready “experiences.” That’s not travel. That’s displacement wrapped in UX design.

But let’s not forget who allowed it. Governments. Corrupt ones. Neoliberal ones. Ones that traded housing rights for tourism revenue. Airbnb isn’t the cancer. It’s a symptom of a system that sold out its people for profit. And while you’re at it, blame the foreign investors buying blocks of apartments. Not the freelancer renting a one-bedroom for three months.

The solution isn’t exile. It’s regulation. Cap short-term rentals. Tax them. Incentivize long-term local tenants. But stop telling me I’m the devil for staying in an apartment I didn’t exploit.

Respect Isn’t a Trend. It’s the Minimum

I don’t want to be worshipped. I don’t even need to be welcomed. I just want to be allowed to exist without being treated like a virus. I came here with humility. I learned to say thank you and sorry and “me puedes ayudar” before I asked for WiFi. I didn’t ask you to change for me. I changed my routine for you. I eat at your lonchería. I take your colectivos. I show up on your terms.

So no. I won’t apologize for living here. For paying rent. For eating tacos on a bench in Parque México. But I will commit to doing it right. No crypto bro nonsense. No “I found myself in Bali” performance. Just showing up, paying attention, and putting my money where it matters.

You Don’t Need to Like Me. But Let Me Earn My Stay

I get it. The resentment. The fatigue. The fear of losing your city. But not every nomad is the villain. Some of us are just trying to build a life. One that costs less, demands less, and gives more. We bring dollars, sure. But also attention, creativity, perspective. We start local businesses. We fund schools. We invest in your stories. And we’re not going anywhere.

Because as long as the world is uneven, people will keep moving. And not every movement is invasion. Some of us are just trying to exist in a way that doesn’t kill us.

So if you see me on the street—sipping my café de olla, trying to pronounce things right, tipping 25 percent know this: I’m not here to steal anything. I’m here to share space. To learn. To stay as long as I’m allowed, and maybe a little longer if no one kicks me out.